


Desperate Times

by onward_came_the_meteors



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bickering, Celebrations, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves, Elf Culture & Customs, Elves, F/M, Fourth Age, Friendship, Gen, Gondor, Hair Braiding, Humor, One Shot, POV Third Person, Ratings: G
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22240063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onward_came_the_meteors/pseuds/onward_came_the_meteors
Summary: Legolas and Gimli are invited to a special ceremony in Gondor... and of course, they oversleep and barely have enough time to get ready. Scratch that... they definitely have no time to braid their hair. If they're braiding it themselves. that is.Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures...
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Desperate Times

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime in March 2931 of the Fourth Age.

Gimli was standing on the edge of a mountain, looking down into the rich valley below. Strangely enough, he could not place where he was, or how he had gotten there, or when or why, but it did not seem to matter. The air was fresh and crisp, the earth was firm under his boots, and the long grass waved golden-green. He knew somehow that mountains were also at his back, rising out of the landscape like hammered shields. 

Everything was perfectly pleasant. Surely the reason why he was here would reveal itself eventually.

A piercing screech tore through the air, and Gimli looked up to see a convocation of giant eagles--like the ones that had carried Frodo and Sam from Mordor, or to go further back, Thorin's Company from the burning pine trees--circling overhead. Brown and white and russet feathers woven into outstretched wings that stood starkly against the magnificent blue of the sky. 

Should he have been troubled by the eagles? They usually only appeared when something had gone horribly wrong, after all--at least in his experience. He appreciated the eagles for this, of course, but that didn't mean they didn't inspire certain feelings of worry. 

But Gimli was not troubled by the eagles. He couldn't put his finger on why. He just watched them idly, twining his hands through the long grass and enjoying the feel of being surrounded by sturdy stone. 

Knock. 

Knock. 

Knock-knock-knock. 

Now what was that-- 

An eagle swooped down and landed on the ground beside him, and Gimli instinctively took a step back, reaching for an axe that wasn't there (why not?) because FORGES OF MAHAL these birds were REALLY BIG up close and why had he never realized this before-- 

And then the eagle opened its beak and spoke in a voice that definitely did not belong to the oversized variety of a certain bird of prey. 

"Gimli! Either you are ignoring me or you are still asleep, but in whichever case, it is in your best interest to open the door!" 

This was followed by yet more persistent knocking. 

The scene around Gimli began to dissolve like flakes of snow from a hearth-warmed beard. 

He found that his eyes were in fact closed, and had been the whole time, as he slowly blinked them open and found himself lying in bed. 

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇ 

Legolas was awoken from a distinctly stranger dream that he couldn't recall fully, but the few details he managed to remember (he was in an elven-boat with all four hobbits, a chorus of frogs was chanting in croaking voices, and was that the smell of mushrooms?) were enough to assure him that this was a good thing. 

As he sat up, he was surprised to discover that he had apparently gone to sleep in a bed last night. As in… lying down, in a bed, underneath a blanket. For someone who not only could sleep while walking about looking perfectly awake and alert but who enjoyed sleeping while walking about looking perfectly awake and alert (the look on that Gondorian guard's face had been priceless) this was a rare occurrence. 

And then Gimli sat up from the bed next to his, Legolas remembered where he was. 

And when it was. 

And why they were there.

Which, incidentally, mixed with the fact that there was someone knocking impatiently at the door-- 

Knock-knock-knock-

(Yes, it was still happening) 

\--did not bode well. 

Legolas disentangled himself from the white sheets and crossed the room in two strides, unlatching the door to reveal Faramir, whose hand was still raised in knocking position. 

"It's about time," the newest Steward of Gondor said, dropping his hand. "I thought elves weren't supposed to sleep like mortals?" 

Legolas decided to ignore that. He studied Faramir, and though it wasn't uncommon for the steward to be dressed neatly, his clothing today seemed unusually so. "Is something going on?" 

Faramir stared at him. "Please tell me you're joking." 

"For that, he'd have to have a sense of humor." Gimli walked up from behind Legolas, completely unruffled by the fact that the two of them were in rumpled nightclothes. "As it is, I'm afraid elven memory is notoriously poor, so I believe you'll need to enlighten this one before we continue." 

Legolas crossed his arms. "If the memory of the dwarves is so much better, as you clearly seem to be implying, perhaps you should enlighten me, Gimli." 

"We don't have time for this," Faramir interrupted, running a hand over his face. "The ceremony starts in five minutes, and both of you better be down there or Valar help you."

With that, Faramir rushed off down the hallway, leaving realization dawning like a horrible, bright, sun on Legolas and Gimli.

"Ceremony…" Legolas repeated. 

"You don't think he meant…" Gimli paced a few steps as though he didn't know he was doing it. 

"I fear he did, elvellon." Legolas looked out the window, where the cheerful blue sky and golden sunlight confirmed that they had, indeed, overslept. 

"... Valar save us." 

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

It all came rushing back to Gimli as soon as Faramir said the word ceremony. Really, he was quite annoyed at himself that he hadn't figured it out sooner: the bedroom he and Legolas were in had the sparseness of a guest room in the Gondorian citadel (besides the packs and assorted belongings that the two of them had scattered on the floor).

And if they were in Gondor, that meant Aragorn had invited them. 

And the reason for that… that was the part Gimli really couldn't believe he'd forgotten about, even in a half-asleep daze. The whole of Middle-Earth had been chattering about it for what seemed like an age. 

So if the two of them missed it… 

Gimli and Legolas held each other's horrified gaze for another moment before the whole of the situation sunk in, and then they snapped into action faster than an avalanche crashing down a mountain peak. 

Gimli dove for his pack--this was his pack, yes, not Legolas's--and rummaged through it for a clean shirt. The outfit he had prepared for the ceremony was thankfully on the top. 

Nothing he could do about the rumpled-ness. He shrugged off his nightclothes and began to dress, aware of the elf doing the same thing behind him. He finished and turned around, seeing what he fully expected, but deciding to comment on it anyway: 

"You look like one of the Lothlórien elves." 

Legolas straightened as he pulled on a shoe. "And you, my friend, are doing a wonderful impression of an aged hobbit grandmother." 

Perhaps he should have chosen a shirt with less buttons. "I misspoke. That is not as much the look of a Lothlórien elf, which I think we can both agree has at least the class distinction of an aged hobbit grandmother, but of a scruffy forest creature pretending to be a Lothlórien elf." 

"I will give you that as a fair assessment of most elves of Greenwood, but surely you do a dishonor to the hobbit grandmother?" A cheeky grin appeared on the elf's face, just like it always did during those times when Gimli could not tell if he was being serious or not. 

This had been irritating beyond belief when they'd first met during the War of the Ring, but over time Gimli had grown more used to the presence of an elf, and therefore, even the most ridiculous of elven habits.

(Whether Legolas had had to adjust to dwarven habits was a moot point--there was no way Gimli ever behaved as frustratingly as the elf) 

Now, however, after so many (some would say too many, and depending on the day Gimli might agree) years of being in each other's company, Gimli had a fairly reasoned sense of when the elf was being serious and when he was not. And even if deprecation was not usually how the elves preferred to banter, well, Legolas was not most elves. 

"I'd never dream of it," Gimli answered "In fact, that's why I chose my garb--in the name of all respectable folk who will not be at the ceremony today because they have heard that elves will be in attendance." 

"If they were not driven away already by the dw--" Legolas started, but he was interrupted by a great pealing of bells from outside. It appeared that when Faramir had said the ceremony was beginning in five minutes… he hadn't been joking. 

The record for fastest dressing of a half-asleep dwarf and elf might easily have been broken at that moment as Gimli and Legolas jumped into action like they had been struck by lightning. 

All Gimli could think was how Aragorn would want to kill them if they were late.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

All Legolas could think of was how Arwen actually would kill them if they were late.

At least both of them were dressed now (he was dressed, right--yes, all articles of clothing were accounted for) and… more awake than they had been three minutes previously.

Which was a good thing! 

None of which would matter if they couldn't get their Valar-cursed-selves down to that ceremony in time, but sometimes it was better to focus on the good things! 

(Perhaps that was ironic coming from an elf, a race known for hours-long ballads to mourning and sadness, but if it was not well known by now that Legolas was not quite the average elf, he did not know how else to correct that assumption) 

He spun around, intending to make for the door, when a lock of loose hair slapped him in the face and effectively quenched any hope that they were going to somehow survive the wrath of the Gondorian royals. 

His hair was loose. 

How… how had he not noticed this earlier, and why had he put himself in this situation to begin with? He always kept part of his hair in braids. It was practical for a warrior, it was the norm for his people… and, yes, he had been told that he looked like his father with his hair down and strived to avoid that as much as possible.

Legolas turned back to Gimli, ready for a heavy sigh and mutterings about frivolous elven customs, but the dwarf was staring at the opposite wall without looking at it, his mouth moving silently in a string of Khuzdul. 

What was he bothered about? Surely he was already-- 

Oh. Legolas almost smiled at the irony of it, but time was ticking and their problems had suddenly doubled. 

Somehow, Legolas needed to braid his hair before the ceremony… and Gimli needed to braid his beard. 

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Not good. 

This was not good, and it was rapidly getting worse as Gimli's fingers slipped and the braid he'd been carefully working on unraveled before his eyes. 

He didn't know what was the matter with him--he'd had a braided beard for decades--but the thought of missing the ceremony and what would happen to them if they did made him clumsy. Especially as he kept picturing a huge invisible clock, ticking away the few precious seconds they had left.

And he couldn't--braid--his--Mahal--cursed--beard! 

Gimli looked at Legolas and was surprised to see that the elf, too, was having trouble. Only one braid was complete, and it was uneven and sticking out at a funny angle. Legolas looked fully and frustratedly aware of this, but was busy fighting with the braid on the other side of his head. 

"Are you attempting a new technique in which staring at me will inspire your beard to braid itself? Because commendable as that may be, it doesn't appear to be working," Legolas said, knowing as always when the dwarf was looking at him. 

"I think it's clear at this point that any technique either of us have tried is not working," Gimli sighed, letting the meager braid in his hands unravel. There was, quite simply, no time. They would have to arrive as they were--even though to do so at a ceremony like this would be a serious breach of both elven and dwarven customs. 

Legolas didn't answer, still fighting with his own hair.

"Legolas." 

Still no reply. 

"Blasted elf, I know you can hear me, I'm telling you to give it up." 

"I never implied I couldn't hear you."

Gimli smirked. Finally. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to get the elf to respond, it was if he thought his superior elven-ness was being challenged. "That's odd--it was my assumption that when one consistently refuses to respond to a request, it implies that they cannot hear it." 

"Or just that the request is not worth responding to." 

"And is that really the case in this scenario?" 

"Yes!" Legolas exclaimed. He waved his free hand at the window, the other one wrapped up in something that could have been a braid, but also could have been an attempt at basket-weaving in the Laketown fashion. "We can't show up looking like this." 

Gimli huffed a frustrated sigh. "And yet we also cannot weave the braids ourselves. What do you suggest we do, elf?" 

Legolas bit his lip and didn't answer. That's how Gimli knew he didn't have any better ideas. 

The rational side of Gimli would have taken this as an opportunity to drag Legolas down to the ceremony (as it was, they would be cutting it close). 

However, as much as he would have liked to press the narrative of dwarves as the most logical of all races, they were also possessed with an irrational side. 

And Gimli's irrational side was quite taken with the thought that here was a chance to get one up on the elf… if only he could think of a solution to their problem that Legolas could not. 

Not that dwarves were not rational creatures (indeed, Gimli considered himself quite the sensible dwarf) but history from the reforging of the Nauglamir to the present was a reliable indicator of whether ration would win out if the other option was humiliating an elf. 

Clearly, this is the fault of my ancestors, Gimli decided. "Well then, you're in luck, because although you might not have a solution, I just so happen to." 

"Do you now?" The elf's tone was brimming with skepticism, just barely held in by a barrier of begrudging curiosity. 

Now came the hard part--Gimli had to actually say his idea out loud. 

As long as he kept his confidence… 

Legolas stared at him, a silent prompter. Gimli wished he would stop looking at him like that--it was going to make it so much harder to get the words out… this idea was ridiculous, but it was all they had--

"It seems, to me, that if the problem is that we cannot braid our own--that is, it seems that the only logical--" Gimli stopped. There was a glint in Legolas's eyes now, and the last thing he wanted was for this to backfire on him. 

No long-winded explanations. What was he, after all, an elf? 

(Choosing to ignore the many topics at which a dwarf would be quite willing to discuss at length for hours, of course) 

"The only logical solution is for us to do each other's braids." 

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Remarkable, how the legends of elven skills could begin Ages ago before the sun and moon were even lit and there was no cause to disbelieve them until about half-past-ten this morning.

Because Legolas was almost certain that there was something wrong with his hearing.

"You think we should… what?"

"Don't argue unless you have something worthy to argue with," said Gimli brusquely, completely set in his decision now that he'd committed to it. "An arsenal of ill-faith will not help us get to the ceremony on time." 

Legolas had the words to argue back--just out of spite, like the majority of their bickering--poised on his tongue, but then closed his mouth again. It rankled him to do it--accept the dwarf's idea without contest--but much less than it would have done before the Fellowship. Now the counter-argument would have mostly been for counter-argument's sake--a mental exercise, if you would--and not because he and Gimli actually distrusted each other.

Alas, sometimes an enjoyable bit of bickering had to be sacrificed for time constraints. 

So Legolas dropped to the floor in front of Gimli and began unraveling the horrors that had been wrought upon his beard.

Every race had its pride: the hobbits had foot hair, the men horses, the wizards their staffs. And it was an unspoken rule that if one was not of that race, they did not touch that source of pride. 

And yes, in the dwarves' case, it was their beards. 

So Legolas wasn't entirely surprised when: 

"What do you think you're doing?" 

He blinked innocently up at Gimli. "Braiding. Is that not what you suggested?" 

"Yes, but not like that--the whole beard isn't braided." 

Legolas frowned at the red curls in his hand. Admittedly, he had not done this before, but he had seen Gimli's braids a thousand times. He'd figured it must not have been that hard. 

And it wasn't hard, exactly… it was just different. Different position, different texture, different thickness. Elven hair was nothing like this.

Which reminded him… "Were you not concerned about wasting time? Here you are, standing idle, while I do all the work--" 

"Go sing to a tree, elf." Gimli's voice was lofty, but a mere moment later, Legolas felt tugs at his own hair. He tried not to wince--not because it was painful, after all he was no stranger to pain after the War of the Ring--but because he could tell by the movement of Gimli's fingers that something was off.

There was no time, though. They had to hurry. 

Legolas's fingers flew through Gimli's beard, twisting and weaving as fast as he could. Belatedly, he remembered how dwarves sometimes wove pieces of metal into their beards, but he hadn't anything like that… nor was that Gimli's usual fashion. 

What seemed like an eternity of pulling, untangling, and some accidental yanking later--Legolas now knew never to pull on a dwarf's beard, and Gimli had been threatened in Sindarin multiple times--both of them dropped their hands to their sides and slowly bent--in Gimli's case--or tilted up--in Legolas's--their heads to look at each other.

"Done?" 

"Done." 

In silent agreement, both of them jolted into action and dashed out the door of their room.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Say what you would about the elves being astonishingly light on their feet, Gimli managed to keep pace with Legolas all the way down the hall, around a corner, over the railing of several flights of stairs (they didn't have time to run down them), through several large empty rooms that the White Tower seemed to have entirely for the purpose of being large and empty, down another hall, and out the front door. 

Natural sprinters, he thought ruefully to himself as the sound of dwarf boots and elven shoes clacking against stone floors vanished, once they were on the grass. 

Not that he could hear Legolas's footsteps anyway, but… oh, what did it matter. 

Outside, the sun was shining brightly, casting light on the crowd of people gathered in the courtyard of the Citadel. In fact, the whole courtyard was filled up, much like it had been at Aragorn's coronation, with only a few paces of clear space around the White Tree. Gimli assumed that within that crowd, they would find their friends: he'd heard that a delegation from Rohan was coming, and of course there would be Eówyn and Fara-- 

"It's about time!" Faramir appeared from the crowd, a look of relief on his face. "You could not have cut it any closer, my friends." 

Gimli offered an apologetic shrug. "You know how it is to try to get an elf to focus on one thing long enough to move--" 

Legolas spoke at the same time. "Yes, it is hard to get anywhere on time when one is burdened with a dwarf--" 

Faramir closed his eyes for a brief moment, but just then, a great fanfare of music began to issue from the instruments of the court musicians. This did an excellent job of hushing everyone in the crowd, all of whom turned their heads to the right expectantly.

Gimli followed their gaze, but couldn't see what they were looking at--at least not over the heads of the Gondorians. He was just wondering whether he dared to jump up and down--a move that would surely fulfill the elf's wildest dreams--when the king and queen of Gondor stepped onto a raised platform that had been set up just before the White Tree.

Both Aragorn and Arwen were beaming, the light of their obvious happiness almost completely erasing the tiredness from their faces. Arwen was holding a small bundle in her arms. 

Gimli felt as though his heart would swell to bursting out of his chest. How often, back during the war with the Dark Lord, had he thought that none of them would ever see this day? After all that had forced Aragorn and Arwen down different paths… here they were, their own little piece of hope real and solid in their arms. He looked up at Legolas, whose eyes were as wide and bright as the vessel of Tilion. 

Finally, Aragorn spread his arms. "Welcome, everyone. I'd like to present to you all--" he carefully, carefully, took the bundle from Arwen as though it contained the most delicate glass "--your next king: Eldarion." 

A great cheer exploded from the crowd, and the bundle in Aragorn's arms stirred at the noise. Unbelievably small, barely visible, a dark-haired head peered out of the folds of the blanket. 

For once, Gimli knew he and Legolas were in agreement: neither of them would have missed this for the world.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

If an eagle were to fly over the White City on that morning, he would see a great celebration taking place. Far below, people moving like ants through the streets, the tide of joy infectious. Delegations from as far away as Rohan and Rivendell were riding through the gates. 

If the eagle flew farther upward, up to the seventh level of Minas Tirith, the signs of celebration would only be clearer: a massive crowd gathered on the courtyard as the small figures of the king and queen held up their newborn son. 

And if the eagle would look closer--bear with it, for it is thought that eagles have remarkable sight, is it not?--he might be able to pick out two figures in that crowd. It mightn't be as difficult as it sounds--both figures do stick out in a mass of humans, after all.

Yes, two figures: one with elven braids, one with dwarven braids. Just as it should be, right? 

Right… it's just that the elven braids were woven into a beard of thick red curls, and the dwarven braids in long blond hair. 

Sometimes even two races as old as the beginning of Middle-Earth are still capable of surprises.

After all, sometimes… times are desperate.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
